


The Need-To-Know Basis

by Britpacker



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2018-08-15 17:10:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8064994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: The boys have had enough of secrecy.  Nobody’s going to look twice in the 22nd century, are they?





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** As ever, no beta, done for pleasure not profit, and on this occasion, no spoilers either!

"Cap'n, you know it's Hoshi's party tonight?" Commander Charles Tucker the Third, known far beyond his intimate circle as Trip, rocked on the balls of his feet and frowned across the ready room at his oldest friend. Captain Jonathan Archer grinned.

"Considering the giant _Happy Birthday_ banner draped over her console this morning I'm not likely to forget it," he answered, the laughter dying on his tongue as he met the solemn stare of the room's third occupant. Smaller than either of his companions, Lieutenant Malcolm Reed had a presence that, at the most unexpected moments, could make the burly captain of the Enterprise feel like a weedy first-year cadet.

"Well, me an' Malcolm thought - that is, if you're okay with it an' all - we'd kind of like to come out tonight."

_Come out_. The antiquity of the phrase betrayed its origin and if he hadn't been so shocked by its meaning Jonathan Archer wouldn't have hesitated to say so. "Well it's no big deal, Trip, if you're ready to tell people: I mean you know everybody's gonna be happy to see you're happy, right?" he stammered. "But I thought Malcolm..."

The Armoury Officer flushed and the intimidating aura around him dissipated. "I admit I've been reluctant to expose myself to the level of _public interest_ any announcement's likely to generate, sir," he said, achieving a commendably neutral tone despite the heightened skin tone. "However, it's been brought to my attention - well, Christmas is coming. I happened to be passing the science section yesterday and overheard Crewmen Butler and Schiavina discussing their annual festive games..."

"And you don't want to see your boyfriend being pinned down under the fake mistletoe by a line of intoxicated women," Archer finished helpfully. He wasn't sure which of the handsome faces opposite turned redder.

"There's a few of the guys get involved too, Cap'n." Trip muttered, hanging his head so he didn't have to meet his friend's laughing jade eyes. Archer cleared his throat.

"Well, if you're feeling _territorial_ , Mister Reed, I can only say - it's about damned time," he said mildly, enjoying the little shock that brought the Englishman's head snapping back as if it had connected with a Klingon's right hook. "It's not like anybody's going to be shocked, guys. This is the twenty-second century, after all!"


	2. Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys make a grand entrance. Or that's the plan...

The decibel level in the mess hall didn't diminish as they entered with joined hands clearly visible below the short sleeves of their lightweight casual shirts, each man bearing a gaudily wrapped gift for the guest of honour in the other. Over the relentless _thump-thump_ of bass from the sound system in the corner Hoshi's voice fluted high and clear. "Hi, guys! For me?"

"I don't see anybody else having a birthday." Her eyes widened at the sight of their clasped fingers but as she swooped in to kiss him exuberantly Malcolm sensed no revulsion from his pretty friend.

While the Japanese exclaimed over her gifts - chocolates (of course) and perfume from the Englishman, more chocolate and a delicate silver bangle from his companion - Reed surreptitiously scanned the milling throng, noting the glances thrown their way. Amusement; surprise; even vague approbation seemed to be expressed in most of them and as they were swept into the body of the room a hand came down, long fingers giving a gentle squeeze to his shoulder.

When he glanced around he was astonished to see Ensign Tanner, one of his own men, grinning broadly. "Congratulations, Sir" he mouthed before whipping away.

In keeping with the sledgehammer approach to subtlety pioneered by their boss, the engineering staff conveyed their opinions with significantly less discretion. Crewman Kelly planted a noisy kiss on Tucker's cheek and winked at Reed before remembering who she was dealing with and stammering an apology all mixed up with good wishes. Rostov stuck out a hand to be pumped before loudly proclaiming to a chortling Novakovic: "I told you so!"

In the midst of so much good-natured approval, the sensation of a single pair of eyes piercing their handclasp burned with the intensity of a laser torch through flesh and bone alike. Slowly, careful to keep the movement casual, Reed turned his head.

And ran smack into the opaque, unrelenting stare of Ensign Travis Mayweather.

For what seemed to the stricken lieutenant an eternity the two men stared at each other before the big brown eyes of the boomer dropped away and he turned, heading with a degree of purpose Reed would have found amusing under any other circumstance toward the buffet. Though the mess was warm, the ambient temperature raised by the press of so many bodies, he felt chilled. 

If there was one friend he'd have counted on, it was Travis. Yet in the last instant before the younger man's gaze had dropped he had read it. Shock. Confusion. Even - perhaps - disgust.

"So, Commander, guess the kissing game's off this year." Megan Hess approached the two men with a broad smile, less daring souls dipping in and out of her wake like gulls behind an Atlantic trawler. Trip grinned.

"Nah, folks just need to find a new target," he drawled, lifting his boyfriend's hand to his lips. If he noticed the brunet's lack of response, the laughter of their subordinates was reason enough to brazen it out. "You want a drink, Mal?"

"Please." The melee parted between them and the bar, people smiling, forming an honour guard for Enterprise's newest couple to pass. In spite of his knotted intestines, Malcolm felt a smile begin at the nickname's use. "And I'm intrigued. What _precisely_ do you think Mister Rostov's been telling Mister Novakovic?"

"Prob'ly that his boss has been actin' like a lovelorn hound every time you've come near engineerin', Lieutenant." Happily Tucker tipped his glass in salute to the young crewman. "Hell, it's nothin' less than the truth! I'm not good at hidin' my feelin's."

"Fortunately for me, or I'd never have believed it when you asked me out," Malcolm shot back, belatedly aware of the heat rushing beneath his skin as a whole host of ears cocked their way. "That was on Purlies Prime, if anyone's interested," he added more loudly.

"Malcolm Reed, you _rat!_ " Only the birthday girl would get away with such an exclamation and by the pup of her glossed lips when she pushed her way into his face he suspected Hoshi knew it. "That was six weeks ago!"

"Six weeks and four days," Trip corrected amid more laughter. "Hey, I could probably count up the hours too, if you want!"

"Please don't, they're getting enough of a giggle from us already." Without a trace of malice Malcolm mock-scowled at the happy throng, a shadow of the exhilaration he had felt that last shore leave ghosting across him. Friends. He'd never really had them before.

Not like these people. Accepting. Happy. Non-judgemental.

A bulky figure shifted at the edge of his vision and the giddy sensation slammed into a brick wall. _Well_ , he amended. _Most of them_.


	3. Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm senses an Issue. He's not keen on Issues...

Buttressed by a glass or two above his usual alcoholic intake Malcolm endured the good-humoured glances and increasingly incomprehensible congratulations of his shipmates with remarkable ease before shuffling back to B deck on his boyfriend's arm. Waking the next morning with a cotton-wool head and a furry tongue, he found admirable compensation in the strong arms that encircled him and the sweet, dopey smile of his partner, observed from beneath sleep-encrusted eyelids for the very first time. "I could get used to this," he murmured, arching up to meet the bigger man's leisurely kiss.

"That's what I'm hopin' for." Duty called. For the first time in his life Reed was tempted to ignore it.

Still, he had to be the strong one or the nuzzling between the sheets could have gone on 'til lunchtime. Parting at the turbolift, too late for breakfast in the mess, the men shared one last lingering smooch that was prematurely ended by the sight (and sound) of Captain Archer looming out of the capsule as it opened on their deck. 

Stepping onto the bridge in his grinning C.O's wake, Malcolm was fairly confident the fire would have just about cooled from his face by lunchtime.

If he was lucky.

He quickly realised _luck_ would have nothing to do with it. Engrossed in the sensor data being gathered from a nebula at extreme range he forgot the brief embarrassment, oblivious to the knowing glances being cast his way. By the time he sauntered away from his station, too late to meet his best friend for a snatched sandwich and a leisurely shared bowl of ice cream, his heart was so light it could have floated right out of his chest.

People nodded and smiled as he strolled through the corridors; the familiar murmurs of "Hi, Lieutenant" wafted in his wake. Life was good, and if only Trip was running late too, still munching in their usual corner it would surely get even better.

Instead he saw a pair of gossiping scientists, too busy talking with their hands to eat the cooling mess of Italian food on their plates, occupying that out-of-the-way table instead. Waving away Crewman Cunningham's offer of dessert with his stale cheese salad roll he scanned the large room, his grey gaze moving restlessly over the crowded tables until it collided with a dark chocolate one from the farthest side of the hall.

He felt a physical shock down to his bones when the helmsman glanced away.

_Right!_

This couldn't go on. Impelled by a surge of frustration that knocked out his inherent caution Reed marched straight toward the younger man, signalling his intentions before he was halfway to the target. "Mind if I join you, Ensign?" he bellowed.

People looked up. Mayweather started. "Ah, no, not at all," he managed, drawing his tray closer to allow the newcomer's more room. Smoothly Reed slipped into the waiting chair.

"You were awfully quiet on the bridge this morning, Travis," he remarked, slumping back in his seat, deliberately unthreatening. "Something bothering you?"

He let the silence stretch with his nerves, watching the younger man spin unwanted spaghetti around his fork and letting it slide a dozen times before the dark head lifted. Gnawing his bottom lip, Mayweather fixed him with the offended stare of a rebellious child. "You never told me you were gay," he announced.

The directness of a child too, Malcolm considered, the coiled spring in his guts releasing with a painful ping now the worst was out. "I don't wish to be pedantic, Travis, but the correct term is actually bisexual," he said coolly, surprised by the sense of calm that enveloped him in the face of a longstanding friend's distress. "And - well, I don't remember you ever explicitly stating your preferences in that department either."

"Yeah, but I'm..."

"Normal?" Malcolm suggested quietly. Travis winced.

"Straight. That's what you expect, right? You just think everybody's gonna be..."

"Normal," the Englishman repeated, holding up both hands to stop the boomer's inevitable protest. "It's okay; I understand. I don't have to like it, but I do understand."

Wide brown eyes scrutinised every feature, as if Travis had never seen him before. Maybe, Malcolm thought, he hadn't; not this way. "I've never met anyone gay before," the helmsman said wonderingly.

Swallowing his mirth almost caused the armoury officer a choking fit. "Never _knowingly_ , I think you mean," he spluttered, relieved to see the first twitch of a grin on his companion's full lips. "I assume you remember Captain Clarke?"

"Field medicine? Like anyone could forg... Wait a minute, you're saying _he's_ gay?"

" _Do_ shout a little louder, Ensign, there might be somebody in the quadrant still oblivious." The sarcasm washed like the solar wind, way above the boomer's head as he contemplated the enormity of Malcolm's revelation. "I was rather surprised myself by that one; met him with his partner, a surgeon from the civilian hospital, at the 602 during my passing-out party. My gaydar's better tuned than yours but even so..."

"Looks like I don't have one." The longer they talked the more the helmsman was relaxing; realisation kicking in that Malcolm-dating-a-man was still really just plain Malcolm. "I always thought it'd be kind of obvious..."

"None of us have signs over our heads; and "Hello, I'm Malcolm Reed, I'm bisexual, by the way" would be a bit of a conversation-killer on campus, don't you think?"

The lisping falsetto he had adopted won a gust of familiar boomer laughter. "Don't _do_ that, man, it's creepy!" Mayweather hooted, slapping both palms down hard on the table and making it tremble. "And I'm sorry for being a jerk. It's just - it's not what I expected, you know? Seeing a guy I've chased girls with in a dozen bars since I was eighteen walking into a party holding another guy's hand... it freaked me out, and I guess you noticed."

"I usually do."

Only after the lazily arrogant words spilled off his tongue did Reed appreciate their meaning; the confidence in Travis and their friendship so heedlessly expressed. The blaze of answering assurance in the younger man's sparkling eyes was almost his undoing.

"Yeah. You do."

Malcolm dipped his head in languid acceptance of the implied compliment, but his brow was furrowed by a sudden realisation. "You're not surprised about Trip going both ways?" he asked. Travis shrugged.

"Hey, he's just a superior officer. Don't get me wrong I like the guy, but..."

"You've never got rat-arsed and drooled over the Jupiter Station talent with him?"

The younger man snickered. "So call me superficial," he invited amiably.

For several minutes they ate in comfortable silence, each, Reed guessed, gauging the impact of his changed public status on their established bond. "What's Clarke's partner like, then?" Travis asked suddenly. 

"Truthfully? Camp as a field of tents."

"You're kidding!"

"More mince than a shepherd's pie and as for the makeup... I've never worn any, in case you're wondering."

"Awww, now you're just ruining it!" Tears leaked from the corners of Mayweather's eyes, both hands pressed against his sides as he shook with faintly hysterical mirth. "We're talking about the same Captain Clarke, right? Brick shithouse with the voice of an angry Klingon?"

"That's the one." Absently Reed shoved back his cleared plate, head cocking to the left as he studied his companion. "I'm not surprised as a rule when anybody turns out to swing that way but they're an odd couple, Clarke and Marlon. Or they were - no way of knowing if they're still together, I suppose."

"Damn, I must be so naïve." Travis shook his lofty head, teeth flashing brilliantly in a gigantic grin. "I'll bet I've shared rooms with gay guys and tried to flirt with gay women without even realising it!"

"More than likely." Now the worst was over Malcolm couldn't resist teasing his young friend a little. "You do realise Caroline Callis is that way inclined?"

"No way!" Travis's last sip of water sprayed right across the table. Delicately the older man waved a napkin at him. "Not that I'd be tempted, I mean. She's got to be forty, minimum!"

"Ancient, then," Reed agreed drily. "But I thought you boomers prided yourselves on being more laissez-faire than we planet-bound stick-in-the-mud unadventurous types?"

"So did I." Creases marred the young man's brow as he contemplated the dent he had made in a proud tradition. "But we're a small community. If everybody around you seems straight you just expect everybody you meet's the same."

His ears pricked up at an unnecessary word. "Seems?" Malcolm queried. Travis shrugged. 

"I'm just wondering if I've been _really_ dumb," he admitted, and the Englishman noticed he couldn't quite stop himself checking out their surroundings for eavesdroppers. "There's these two guys who trade as a partnership - Dad's done business with them forever - Jose and Luis. It never occurred to me before, but maybe they're... you know?"

"Partners?"

The troubled expression dissolved. "Yeah," Travis agreed. "Partners. Like you and Commander Tucker."

"God help 'em in that case." 

"Hey, God help the universe if there's two pairs like you!"

"If you're about to throw the old _Disaster Twins_ line, Ensign..."

The steeliness that gave Reed's words a blade's edge dissolved leaving laughter, rich and warm, to flood through. "You're behind the times. We heard that from the Captain six weeks ago."

He sat back, arms loosely folded across his chest, watching with amusement as comprehension dawned. "Six _weeks?_ " Mayweather yelped, their surroundings momentarily forgotten in a burst of comradely outrage. "You've been getting it for _six weeks_ and you never told me? Man, I thought we were friends!"

"Does that mean we still are?" If Charles had been Charlotte, Reed conceded, the first person he would have bragged to would be this exuberant, undiplomatic young pup. 

He had no time to ponder further. Jaw on the tabletop, Travis fixed him with a wide, wounded stare. "You're kidding, right? You didn't think - just because you're playin' for a new team? C'mon, Malcolm, you know me better than that!"

"I hope I do." Cruel to be kind. His father had claimed to be that on a regular basis, a memory that shot an icy bolt down Malcolm's spine even as he forced out the uncomfortable truth. "But I wasn't sure, given how oddly you looked at Trip and I last night."

"Sorry." He expected nothing less than honesty from this man and Travis didn't disappoint. "I wasn't expecting it, but - well, nothing's changed, has it? You're still Malcolm."

"Last time I checked my ID, yes." He wasn't wholly convinced; the next time Trip tried to take his hand in a public area Reed suspected he'd be running a mental scan of the neighbourhood before giving in. But that Travis believed what he was saying he had no doubt, and the rest would come with time. 

His lips twitched. Easing aside his cleaned plate Malcolm stretched across the table, reaching upward to purr into the younger man's ear. "And if it's bothering you, Ensign... I'm sorry, but you're really not my type."

"Wha?" Spluttering, Mayweather jerked backward in his chair so hard his head connected with the bulkhead behind, a mischance that only made him laugh louder. "Dammit, Malcolm, don't _say_ things like that, it's just _wrong!_ "

"Sorry." Never in his life had Reed looked - or felt - more unrepentant. Yes, it might take a while, but Travis would get used to the shift in perception. After the heart-lurching fear of the night before realisation of that certain fact was making him giddy. "But I thought I'd better clarify - in case you were worried I was only after your arse in those additional combat classes you never paid me for..."

"Hey, I paid you back in beer!" Raucous amusement suited Mayweather better than the sheepish uncertainty Malcolm had read on entering the mess. He juddered under the impact of a meaty hand pounding him smack in the middle of the back as the younger man stood, tray balanced precariously over one arm, and swayed around the table. "I've gotta go. See you on the bridge."

His response, Malcolm knew, was lost in the workaday babble of the mess. It didn't matter.

He had Trip. He had his career and a circle of good friends. And among them, still, he could count Travis Mayweather.

Life, really, was pretty bloody marvellous.


End file.
